All is Well
by AsterianWishes
Summary: Love, she decided is not a victory march. 'Tis a funeral parade.


This was posted before, but I accidentally deleted it whilst having a blond moment D: Don't report for plagiarism please!

This drabble/oneshot/story-thing was written to ease my piece of mind about Arthur/Gwen. Because it so totally rules next to Lancelot/Gwen. In my humble opinion. Which is always right. :P

Enjoy.

* * *

At first, all is well.

Arthur loves her and she loves him and for once neither must hide it. They rule over a kingdom that cherishes their monarchs, that blooms with happiness and prospers in wealth. She feels as if she's living her own fairytale.

But Arthur welcomes _him _back like a long lost friend, face alight in innocent joy. She smiles too, but fear and lust clutch at her heartstrings as _he _places a lingering kiss on her hand, and says '_My_ _Queen_.'

Suddenly, nothing is well.

* * *

They know it's wrong. The word knocks and pounds in their minds, and repeats itself again and again. The crown on her head is further proof of it, and it weighs her down momentarily, only to be quickly discarded in the ripping of clothes in a lustful fury.

_Wrong_. _Wrong_. _Wrong_.

Yet it feels so good. The emotion gnaws at their hearts, rattling and ripping and _alive_, and repeats itself again and again.

**Right. Right. Right.**

**

* * *

**

She loves Arthur. With her soul and heart and everything she has. Her heart hammers in his presence and aches in his absence.

But _him_...Her body writhes to his touch, and aches for it as he leaves –honour no longer intact.

They are beautiful and dangerous. Her rose and her thorn.

She doesn't know what will triumph, love or lust.

In the end, both will be her doom.

* * *

She knows that he knows. He knows that she knows that he knows. Yet the confrontation never comes.

* * *

Merlin hates her. He hates them both. She can see it in his eyes, his clipped tones and in the cold line of his lips.

Merlin cares for Arthur like a brother; he will not stand to see him hurt.

It's the first time she is truly afraid of the power Merlin possesses. This too, frightens her.

* * *

His body is brought back to her, perfect as ever, save for the wound in his side. The howls that escape her are inhuman; the knights flinch as they witness their broken queen. But she cares not what they think. She nearly suffocates by the activity of her own heart. She feels her soul crack.

Sever.

Shatter.

Break.

Goodbye, Arthur.

_Goodbye, Guinevere._

* * *

She wonders whom he thought of in his dying moments.

His father?

Merlin?

Lancelot?

Her?

_Her and Lancelot?_

After all he achieved and lost on his path to greatness...

The love and respect of his most trusted knight,

The love and respect of his kingdom,

The love and respect of his best friend and advisor,

His wife,

His sister,

...She hopes the gods are lenient enough to grant him peaceful slumber.

Because, regretfully, she never did.

* * *

_He_ stands away from her at the memorial.

Perhaps its guilt, or he simply doesn't want to cause a show, but he can't seem to spare a glance her way.

She lingers behind, long after Arthur's body has sailed to Avalon under the guidance of Merlin, by the edge of the lake. Her tears have been lost in the rain and her love lost to time until she becomes a hollow shell. Without her king, she is the epitome of the living dead.

* * *

She almost doesn't hear him as he approaches her, his footsteps cleverly disguised by the thunderous rain.

"You're soaked."

She chooses to ignore the statement. She's finally doing what she should've done in the very beginning.

The silence that befalls them is louder than words, and hundreds of unspoken regrets fill it.

He turns to leave, but stops abruptly.

"Do you...do you wish I, I...were in his place?"

His words are no surprise. She has been wishing that ever since her husband's death. The silence is as good a confirmation as he'll ever get, and he nods and takes his leave, and she never hears from him again.

A weary breath escapes her.

True Love, she decides, is not a victory parade.

'Tis a funeral march.

* * *

Poor Arthur and Gwen. And Lancelot.

_Review si'il vous plait :)_


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